


I have always confused desire with the apocalypse

by bellamees



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Drift Bond, F/F, F/M, Gen, Jaeger Academy, Jaeger Pilots, Kicking Kaiju Ass, Minor Character Death, Minor Clarke Griffin/Raven Reyes, Minor Finn Collins/Clarke Griffin, Minor Violence, Non-Canon Relationship, POV Clarke, The Drift (Pacific Rim), blake siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamees/pseuds/bellamees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Clarke is drift-incompatible, the Blake siblings are rock stars, and drifting is a thing made of dreams. [Pacific Rim AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	I have always confused desire with the apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> This AU follows very (very) loosely the movie plot. I tried to create parallels between the show’s storyline and the Kaiju War the best way I could, I apologize for failures, haha. Most Kaiju names were taken from Neon Genesis Evangelion or Pacific Rim itself because I just can’t name monsters. The Jaegers were named after their pilots and the show (for example, Sky Crew comes from the Grounder word for ‘Sky People’, skaikru). What else… oh, while in the movie their Shatterdome is the last one remaining, in this AU we have several of these around the world (early Kaiju War, you know, money still flowing) — so we have the Ark, the Ground, Mount Weather, etc. The Ark is located in Anchorage, Alaska, while the Ground is in Los Angeles, just because I didn’t want to explain why Kaijus were casually showing up in the Atlantic ocean, haha. Oh and finally, I think it’d be good to watch the movie to understand the plot? If not, here’s the tl;dr: alien monsters (Kaiju) attacking Earth, giant robots called Jaegers are built to protect the coast line, special people train and pilot these babes and they’re usually awesome. 
> 
> The title comes from [a fanfic](http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/430360/i-have-always-confused-desire-with-apocalypse-infinite-myungsoo-myungyeol-sungyeol/18) I adore from the k-pop fandom, written by **Lirazel**. ♥

“Clarke, you’re losing it—” I’m brought back from the drift with hasty violence, and the blue hues are sucked out of reality, replaced by the greys of the simulation cockpit. I’m familiar with the sensation, and it still makes me want to throw up every time. “Are you okay?”

No answer comes from my end. I close my eyes as if I could dip into the drift again on my own, but I can’t, so I’m left with the darkness behind my eyelids instead. When the question repeats, I let out a sigh. It’s been six months of this already. “I’m out of here,” I say, disconnecting myself from the conn-pod-like structure, the spinal clamp tingling my bone structure obnoxiously. It used to be a good feeling. The memory is still more present that I’d like, after all this time. The lingering images that add up to my incompatibility — fear, loss, my father’s horrified eyes just before dying, fear, fear, _fear_. Sakieru was a Category 1, and it got to our home town before my father’s Jaegers had become a dream come true. When the marines finally put it down with hazardous nuclear weapons, I was dripping Kaiju blood, intoxicated, radioactive, all stained ultramarine blue.

I ignore the techs around the simulation room, their side glances to each other, the understanding that Clarke Griffin, once again, couldn’t drift. Taking the elevator to the ground levels, I analyze my choices. Leaving the Ark to venture on my own in some wild americana dream would be stupid considering the apocalypse at hand, but so is staying. The elevator comes to a smooth hault and I get out in the dome, avoiding looking up at the spectral bodies of our Jaegers, all of them children of my father’s earliest Mark-1 designs, monsters to fight monsters. I know all of them by heart, their weapons, their armors, their status, their colors, their names. There’s Chemist Saber, Mark-4, Grounder Justice, Mark-5, Spacewalker, Mark-2, and — and the last one, my favorite one. _I’ll make you one someday_.

My eyes betray me, gazing up fondly to the Jaegers, to Sky Crew, _my_ Sky Crew, Mark-5. She’s beautiful.

“You can choose not to chase the rabbit, Clarke.” I quiver at the affectionate voice. It belongs to Marcus Kane, the man who took my father’s projects out of destruction and made them real, all those years ago. His Commander pin is well-placed on his lapel, but he’s not wearing military clothes, as most of us. Casual Friday, who knows. “It’s been years.”

“So you’re stalking my results.” As if to fight his friendliness, my own voice comes out bitter. The trooper standing two feet from us seems startled, reaching for his belt, as if he could just shoot me dead for talking back at the Commander. Kane gives him a _It’s okay_ nod. I roll my eyes, tired of the whole exchange already. “I need to go.”

“You’re not incompatible, Clarke.” _Yes, I am_. We’re forty-eight wannabe pilots in the Jaeger Program. Forty-eight people and yet I’m the only one incompatible. I’m the only one who keeps failing the drift simulator, unable to reach battle levels, unable to face computer-based Kaijus. Fear, fear, _fear_. Ultramarine blue fear. “We’re getting new pilots, I want you to keep tabs on them.”

The change in topic floors me — but it’s expected. I’m useless as a pilot, might as well be useful as a pilot babysitter. I wish nothing more than a neural overload at a very bad drifting session. However, I nod, and my voice comes out dry when I say a sour _Sure, Commander_. Our conversation is over, and I’m the one to walk away first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_The Blake siblings, they’re coming_. The whispered gossip seems more like a ghost story than an actual fact, retold everyday, echoing within the Ark’s walls. But it’s quite real. I listen as Miller fills us in with the latest Blake-related media time that morning: Kaijus slaughtered everywhere, from the Pacific line to the Australian Wall, seven kills in a row, the most vicious pilots since the first generation. They’re rock stars, baddasses, and _pretty damn hot_ , as Fox chimes in. Jasper looks about to throw up, sitting across from me on the table. “You’ll do fine,” I tell him while the others continue their conversation in loud voices, getting annoyed glances from techs and officers around us. “They’re just like us.”

Jasper smiles weakly, nodding. He’s been chosen as Chemist Saber’s pilot alongside Monty, their drift unbelievably powerful for such small folks. Monty signed to be a J-Tech initially, but our trainers eventually saw the prospect of a compatibility between them, seeing the easy bond they formed. Turned out they were right, and Jasper and Monty have been training with Chemist Saber for the past two months. Next in line to face a Kaiju, in exactly six days, seventeen hours and thirty-four seconds. The war clock never stops, not since it started, twenty-something years ago; zeroes bring the monsters out from under our beds. I offer Jasper another reassuring smile before standing up. “Are you picking them up, Clarke?” It’s Miller who asks, and they all stare at me for a moment, expectantly, almost breathlessly. I partially dislike the Blake siblings already.

“Yeah, I’m meeting them up at the Bay.”

“Make a good impression, Griffin!”

Rolling my eyes does nothing to calm them down, and I can still hear their cackles even when I’m away from the food hall. I never been to high school, but I feel like this is what it must look like — if shared with adults and killer robots alike. For some reason I get nervous as I approach the outer levels of the Ark, where the choppers land, the Bay. The shimmery sunlight hurts my eyes, and I have to protect my face from the blasting wind. The ocean is beyond us, dark and desperate like an Edvard Munch paiting. It feels good to be outside, but it also feels cold and salty and revolting; how Earth remains so beautiful amisdt our apocalypse. The chopper shadders the air all around us, deafening, landing graciously on the expected spot. Some people get off; I recognize techs and troopers alike, wearing different military clothes than ours, and then finally the siblings. Both of them look somber, their eyes scanning the Ark, unfaithful. They lost their Jaeger — Roman Fury — to Scunner, Category 4, forcing the girl to solo pilot for nearly twenty-minutes before finally killing it, collapsing right after. Octavia, that’s her name. I glimpse at the welcome paraphernalia Kane has provided me with — what’s _his_ name? Ah, Bellamy is the older brother. Bellamy and Octavia Blake.

“Welcome to the Ark, I’m Clarke Griffin,” I say in my best diplomat voice when they walk over to where I’m standing. They’ve come from the Ground, Lost Angeles, and they seem perfectly unhappy with the cold endless winter around us. Offering my hand for them to shake, I just hope I don’t look as distressed as I am feeling. “You must be Bellamy and Octavia. I’ll be showing you around.”

Octavia reaches for my hand first, hers small but strong, shaking firmly. She is indeed as beautiful as Miller’s gossip outlined her, bur far more imposing; the long braided hair, the smudged black around her eyes, like warrior paint. They don’t look alike, but they walk alike, and they shake my hand the same way, and they have the same look on their faces. No wonder they have such a perfect drift. _It’s a Blake thing_ , people say.

“So you’re the princess,” Bellamy says as we resume walking towards the Ark. I don’t like his tone, the slightly condescending layers within his voice. “Jake Griffin’s only daughter.”

“I wasn’t aware my father left me a kingdom.” I don’t smile, I don’t even look back at his face, and neither of them respond my sharp remark. We walk together through the Ark’s catwalks and ramps, taking elevators to the different facilities. _Level A-3 is K-Lab, Level A-2 is J-Tech, Level A-1 is the dome_ , I explain, poiting and introducing them to higher ranked officials as we go. They both stop at one of the catwalks, staring at the Jaegers, same fascinated look glimmering inside their pupils.

“He left you something better, Clarke,” Octavia smiles at me, as if she’d known my very own thoughts. I instantly decide I was a fool for disliking Octavia Blake and her warrior paint. She’s the stuff of History. Bellamy watches our interaction with slight curiosity, the sterling big-brother-esque features less abbrasive now. I can tell neither of them wanted to come to the Ark, but upon seeing the Jaegers they seem to have relaxed, eased up on their jobs, remembering what must be done. I don’t tell them I’m not a pilot, the shame surpressing the words on my tongue. “Tell me about them.”

“Well, that’s Spacewalker. Mark-2, the oldest we’ve got. Eighteen kills in ten years of history. We lost one of the pilots, Finn, fourteen months ago, against a Kaiju in Osaka, it’s been on repair ever since. Grounder Justice, Mark-5, three strikes, fairly new, to be assigned to the famous Blake siblings,” both Bellamy and Octavia smile, but not at me, at their Jaeger. Even their smiles are in sync. It’s kind of magnificent and eerie to watch. “And that’s Chemist Saber, Mark-4, best plasmacaster we’ve ever created, eight shots, eight kills, Jasper and Monty are the newest pilots. Then there’s Sky Crew, she’s a Mark-5, no pilots chosen, our newest model, a kill virgin.”

Octavia and Bellamy don’t fail to notice my lack of self-introduction as a pilot, and I feel my cheeks hit up. _I’m not assigned to any Jaeger, yes, thank you for asking_ , I catch myself thinking sorely. Bellamy and his patronizing stare make a move again, but Octavia stops him before he says anything, and for that I’m grateful. We finally get to the rangers’ quarters and they’re met with celebratory cheerfulness all around. It doesn’t take long until Miller is passing them moonshine — a Jasper and Monty invention at the age of fifteen for all of us underage rangers to get loosen up before simulated drifting — and they are fully integrated in our group. I don’t blame others for being impressed; we haven’t seen a new face in a long while. Last one to join us was Maya, circa five years ago, all the way from Mount Weather, a pilot trainee who Jasper seems to fancy (even though he seems to fancy Octavia a lot more right now).

At some point the siblings get tired of the undying attention, and I’m pulled back from the crowd to show them to their chambers. Bellamy’s across from mine, Octavia’s next to his. “We start work at 7, don’t party too hard.”

“What— _you_ ’ll score us tomorrow?” It’s Bellamy who asks, of course, his head cocked to the side, a witty smile curling his lips. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, princess, but I don’t think we need you at all. It’s not like you know how to pilot.”

I despise him. “You can tell that to the Commander. Let’s see if he’ll hand you a Jaeger then.” I’m seething with anger, feeling it boil, heating my body up. Of course Kane would still give them Grounder Justice, what a childish thing to say. Saving the world from termination wins the battle against petty pilot jealousy. Octavia says something along the lines of _you’re being assholes and I’m done_ , walking away from us, and I feel at little bit embarrassed. Bellamy doesn’t seem to be through with me, but his sister affects him more than I’d have known, and he leaves me alone, shouldering his way around me. “Jerk.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When they spar, they’re majestic. People gather around to watch them at the combat room, swaying their wooden swords, the clashing sounds, the sharp inhaling followed by a new blow. Octavia’s hair swirls all around her like a cape, and it would be impractical in battle otherwise, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. Bellamy beams at her, proud little older brother, even though he tackles her with serious strenght. _One zero_ , my voice echoes, _one one_. Bellamy spares me a self-righteous look, one that says _told you we didn’t need you_. Their synchrony is appalling — _two one_ — I never had something like that. _Two two_. People cheer them up after every strike, but the room becomes silent once the sparring resumes. Like we’re all holding our breaths collectivelly. _Three three_. The sibling brothers are made of smoke — _four three_ — dancing around each other, fluent moves in sync. _Four four_. The small crowd goes crazy.

As other rangers come up to the mat to fight, the curious horde dissipates, and I write down my evaluation of Bellamy and Octavia Blake. They’re more than fitting. I address Octavia to the right hemisphere, and Bellamy as her co-pilot. A girl who can solo pilot and carry a fight like that is a natural. The rest of the day follows as expected. My results are taken to Kane while I join the rangers in training, even though I’ve graduated already. I know every one of the Ark’s trainees, though. There’s no hope to find sync within my limited circle of options. And there’s the fear.

“Aren’t you tired of this goddamn combat room, Clarke?” The question comes from Raven, and I smile, happy to see her. Raven was Spacewalker’s co-pilot, but her fall in Osaka severed her leg and took away Finn. She didn’t let that be her downfall, not Raven. She’s now the best J-Tech Officer the Ark has ( _And the youngest_ , she says, smug). Raven has always been the smartest out of the rangers, anyway. “I mean, I’m afraid at some point I’ll stop by and you’d have drifted with the mat.”

“Never thought of that,” Raven laughs, looking at the rangers training. Random shouts of _1-0, 4-2, 3-0_ are heard here and there, amidst heaving, heavy blows and painful groans. She doesn’t miss the Blake siblings helping out younger trainees, shrugging at drift-related questions, like it’s so easy for them. It _is_ so easy for them. “Yeah, they’re kind of a thing now.”

“I’ve been side-working on their circuitry suits for the past week, they got the conn-pods engineers all drooling,” she rolls her eyes, a gesture that mimics my own, and I wish for once that Raven could still pilot. Although we had our troubles in the past — mostly regarding Finn and teenage lovesick affairs — she’s the closest I have to a best friend. It pains to know we could be drift compatible, but we still _can’t_. “Maybe I’ll just make their suits extra tight on purpose.”

“You should.”

We exchange secretive smirks, and I let Raven tell me about her weaponry projects, watching the excitement pour into her eyes, wondering how long it took for her to let go of fear and loss before she could move on. Granted that Raven would never pilot again, what would she see if she were to drift? I wonder if she’d be like me; incompatible, adrift, chasing invisible rabbits through holes shaded blue, a part of her soul damaged beyond repair. Probably not. Raven’s proven stronger than me in that sense. “Let’s get out of here, places to go, Clarke.” I don’t look back at the Blakes when we head out together, but for some reason I feel Bellamy’s eyes bore into my skull, the hair on my neck prickling. I secretly hope Raven was being honest about their suits.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I want you to lead this operation.”

Kane’s request is adorned with a paternal accent, a hand on my shoulder, and a proud smile. _You’re ready, Clarke_. I hear him, but I hardly compute him. Even though Raven predicted Kane would leave me his place one day — passing from one privileged person to another, as power often does — he’s in perfect condition of keeping his job until we’re done with Kaijus for good. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, Kane?” I’m a ranger, meant to be a pilot, that’s all I’m good for. Kind of good. I _will_ be good.

“They listen to you,” Kane’s smile doesn’t falter. His voice is conversational, as if he’s just asking me to hand him the potatoes over breakfast. “You’ve been training the longest, you know the ground, I’ve seen you study the charts. And you know your Jaegers, your pilots. You’re as good as any officer.”

“I can’t lead kids to war.” I say it matter-of-factly, and my eyes flicker quickly towards the war clock, something pulling on my heart. Kane cornered me, I don’t even have the proper time to oppose before a static-like voice echoes within the dome, and I recognize Raven’s timbre. _Chemist Saber, report to launch, catwalk A-42. Kaiju, condename Arael, Category 2. Get ready to roll, boys_. The dome around us come alive; techs and officers preparing Chemist Saber to go, her crimson hull glistening under their white ligths, orders being shout over rushed voices. I catch a glimpse of Jasper and Monty, all suited up, looking somewhat defiant in their black armors. My stomach whirls uncomfortably.

“Sir,” they say in monotone, burying their anxiety under several layers of artificial confidence.

“Gentlemen,” my eyes flare at Kane, and I silently beg him not to put me through the mission. The message fails to go through. “Clarke will be leading your mission, report to her over the conn-pod. Good luck.”

Both Monty and Jasper have a mixture of relief and surprise in their eyes, and even though I search for it, I don’t see any distrust. They’re not scared I’m leading their mission. Monty is the one to hug me, his armor tough against my ribcage, his movement somewhat unprofessional, but I don’t care, _I’m glad you’re with us, Clarke_. Then they’re off to Chemist Saber, looking back eventually, as if to make sure we’re still there. _They’ll be fine_ , I tell myself, _we’ll be fine_. Category 2. They should have no problems. Kane’s attention is back on me, offering me clear path. “Lead the way, Clarke.”

The mission control receives us with mild interest. Raven’s the only one to look away from her hologram screens, eyebrows raised. _Get to work, Clarke_ , I tell myself. Raven looks unsure for about three seconds, until she offers me a place beside her, already down to business. I feel like I’m about to throw up, like I’ve been just out of the simulator, spitted out of the drift. She presses the communication button, and waits. I clear my throat. _You can do this_. “Boys, are you all set?”

“All set, sir — miss, sir, Clarke, Loccent.”

I can’t help but smile. “Initiating neural handshake in fifteen, fourteen...”

At some point, I start feeling at ease. Commands seem to flow naturally as I get acquainted with the control pannels in front of me. _Ready for the drop, boys_ , I tell them once their bridge is aligned and steady and a beautiful cerullean. When Chemist Saber launches, I’m almost alright. My heart has stopped pounding so harshly on my ears, even after the Blake siblings get themselves in the mission room, spying over my shoulders. “Kaiju signature on the rise, Saber, get ready.” We can’t exactly see the fight, we can only image it, watching through holographic screens, listening to their jagged breaths, getting data on the hull damage, oxygen levels, heart rates, transmitters, every possible thing in order to keep them alive. I want to be there so bad. “Saber, your left plasmacaster is damaged, I’ll overrun the force to your right arm, be ready to blast.”

“Copy, Loccent. Let’s give him a giant fucking hug,” I hear Monty laugh in my ear.

“I knew there was a baddass in there somewhere, Mr. Green,” Jasper tells him, and Raven renacts their peculiar high-five beside me. It’s surreal how my imagination recreates them inside their red-colored pod, protected by the iron hull of Chemist Saber, high-fiving each other, swinging the robots’ enormous arms around the Kaiju. Something blinks to my right, _overrun 100%,_ in bright green. “Let’s end it.”

It’s agonizing to wait. It’s agonizing to watch the blinking red spot — Chemist Saber — dancing around the black Kaiju spot. Some of the Jaeger’s transmitters beep incontrollably. Left knee failure, damage to side hull, _go, Monty_ , _now!_ , _water on the left foot_ , _left arm gone cold, Loccent_ , _beep, beep, beep, red, red, red_. They do end it, in the messiest way possible, and when Monty’s voice come out again, it’s raspy and breathy and there’s a smile to it. “Remember me to never hug a Kaiju again.” The room seems to breathe again, and Raven gives me half a hug that I probably don’t deserve. All I did was sit and press buttons. Before I can say anything, Raven’s hug goes rigid.

“Kaiju signature rising,” she says, standing up to grab the readings coming out of the computer. I feel the blood draining from my face, and when I look over my shoulder, Kane isn’t there anymore. _Fear, fear, fear, fear_. “I don’t get it — Category 2. 10 miles south. Same specs. It’s like the same fucking Kaiju. _Jesus_.”

“Saber, we got Kaiju signatures, sending you coordenates right now,” I tell them, tipying the data furiously. Jasper groans. “You have to get out of there, we’re sending choppers.”

“We can still keep it busy until—”

“ _No_ , Jasper. Start moving your asses out of there.” I get up, for a second standing there breathing heavily, disoriented by fear, my groundless Kaiju fear. Then I remember I have to get them out of there, and my mind clicks into place again. “Get Grounder Justice ready to go in five,” I tell no one in particular, and I hear Octavia’s _yes, sir_ , as they run out. “I want the choppers ready to take Saber out of there.”

A warning signal pops up on the bigger screen, while the artificial voice reads it _Warning!, Warning!, Warning!_ , in such a soothing, well-collected way I’m envious of her. A blow to Chemist Saber front hull damaged the nuclear reactor, and several engine blocks are terminated. The left arm is gone. The Kaiju got to them faster that anything we’ve seen. “It has fucking wings!” The scream belongs to Jasper, and both Monty and him yell commands at each other franctically.

“We’re ready, princess.” Bellamy’s voice has lost the arrogance. It’s coated with worry now, real worry. I nod to Raven and she initializes the neural handshake. Chemist Saber still ballets with the flying Kaiju, Monty and Jasper’s screams and the computers blood-like red flashing lights giving me a horrifying migraine. It’s like walking through a nightmare knowingly. I search my brain for Chemist Saber stats — plasmacasters, _gone_ , alloy shield, _badly damaged_ , feet propulsors, _flooded_ , _what else, what else, what else_ — when Raven shrieks, her shoulder clashing into mine as she looses balance over her injured leg.

“Saber, use the electro-blade on your right arm, I mean, Wick and I just put it there like two months ago, I have no idea how the electromagnetic induction-heat will act like, no testing time yet, but—” her words are stumbling into each other, and both Jasper and Monty let out exhilarated screams of joy. Raven Reyes, you fucking prodigy. “Try it, just—”

“I could kiss you, Reyes!” Jasper is laughing again and I don’t know how he does it (Monty goes “Watch the mental images, man, I’m inside your head!”, making Raven laugh too). My whole body is still shaking from panic. “Engaging electro-blade.”

They manage to cut one of the wings out before Arael’s twin brother launches at them again, and the monster is left impaired and angry, tossing violently. Grounder Justice gets there moments later, and the Blake siblings blast the little beast open in few clean movements, in so much synchrony it feels God-like. The flashing warnings around us dissipate, Kaiju readings on zero, beeping fading to nothingness. I feel very much ready to pass out, but somebody shoves a plastic cup of water into my hands, and I find my chair, and I’m pressing buttons again, vision blurry, sweat cold. “Chemist Saber, the choppers are ready to get you. Report.”

“We lost the left arm, water flooded to knee levels, hydraulic system are done for—”

“Are _you_ okay?”

Silence on the other side. I listen intensely, as if I could hear punctured lungs and bone fractures through their heaving.

“We’re okay, Clarke.”

“Good. That’s good.”

When both Jaegers are back, Chemist Saber is dripping in Kaiju blood — the stinky blue mist makes techs cough as they hose it down, and we’re all given breathing masks out in the dome — missing an arm, gravely damaged, knee alloys gone for good. Jasper and Monty look sweaty and exhausted, but they grin under their own masks as everyone wants to pat their backs, touch their armors, clapping around them. _First kill, boys!_ , they say, and I’m taken by an interesting blend of relief and pride. My shoulders feel less heavy as they make their way through the dome, and it’s amusing to see how their walking looks more graceful now. The crowd won’t let me get close to them, but I don’t mind; there will be plenty of moonshine and re-telling of the fight going on later at the rangers’ quarters.

“You’re a fit leader, Clarke.” I dislike Kane and his Dungeon Master style of showing up. It freaks me out. The crowd starts dissipating around us, techs and officers alike settling back on their previous tasks, and I’m impressed for a second at human capacity of such easy happiness. The air around us is filled with the overjoyed sensation that the war is over, that killing two Kaijus might have just ended it, magically. Except it never is, it never does end, and we’ll be reminded of that soon enough.

“I pressed buttons.”

“You made choices. I want you to work at the Loccent from now on.”

“I don’t want to—”

“You’re not a ranger. Not anymore.”

And just like that I’m upgraded. Kane leaves me with _Officer Reyes will guide you through_ and a military-style nod, which I don’t respond to. I feel like Presto, the Magician. Hopelessly holding onto something I know it can — it might, _it must_ — work, but failing every time. My eyes follow the skeleton of the damaged Chemist Saber to the half-hidden form of Sky Crew. Something pulls hard on my chest as I remember my father’s sketches laid out on our kitchen table, and how scribbled on the corner of his first Jaeger drawing was _I am become death, destroyer of worlds_. I wonder if that’s what will follow if I lead missions — death, destruction.

“What?”

I haven’t realized I spoken outloud. Bellamy is standing next to me, just like Kane, out of smoke. He’s still wearing his armor, looking down at me from his height, imperial, glorious like every Jaeger pilot through history, and for a moment or so I’m starstrucked, like seeing a poster coming to life, a dream made of monsters and Gods. It fades as soon as I remember it’s just Bellamy Blake, current asshole.

“It’s Oppenheimer, he was—”

“I know who Oppenheimer is.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and I don’t fail to notice his smile is somewhat different. Then I remember he was also in the fight, and I remember so suddenly it snatches the air out of my lungs. Not once I worried about Grounder Justice, or the siblings. Not once I wondered about their well-being. Not because I had faith in their fighting skills, but because there was no space to care for them. Shame takes control of my limbs and I hold myself, as if I’m cold. “You did a good job today,” my voice is weak and quivering, and my face is red. Bellamy’s smile falters, like he was not expecting compliments from me.

“I know,” the arrogance is obviously there, but there’s also something I identify as gratitute. It’s really thin and shaky, but it’s there. “You too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Both Presto, the Magician and the Dungeon Master that Clarke talks about are characters from Dungeons and Dragons, a cartoon from the 80s. Also, LOCCENT stands for Local Command Center, if you were wondering.


End file.
